To Soothe
by Helena Larkin
Summary: Frodo has a cold whilst travelling through the Midgewater Marshes. My first fanfiction. Reviews welcomed.
1. Default Chapter

Title: To Soothe  
  
Author: Helena Larkin  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Summary: Frodo has a cold. Set in the Midgewater marshes.  
  
Story Notes: No sex, slash, profanity, graphic medical detail, or violence. Contains hurt/comfort, including cuddling!  
  
Disclaimer: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way.  
  
  
  
To Soothe  
  
  
  
  
  
"Get some sleep Frodo"  
  
He looks terrifyinglysmall and fragile, wrapped in layer upon layer of blankets; dark curls fluttering in the chiil, foul-smelling breeze that drifts from the dim marshes.  
  
I think Frodo is unaware of how much I know. Of the Shire, of Bilbo, even of him. I have guarded that land for some years now; in glimpses, I have seen him grow from a small child - seemingly too delicate to live longer than a few months - into an adult hobbit (though he seems too innocent and unworldly to deserve that title), the most beautiful I believe I have ever seen. He still appears in many ways childlike: not only his size, but the strange mixture that is his character, at once composed of an intriguing sense of mystery and a bewildering simplicity, giving him a manner which seems to me very like that of an exceedingly intelligent child. Perhaps it is his years of illness that have made him thus: quieter, calmer, altogether sweeter than hobbits in general. I never paid a great deal of atttention to him, beyond noticing his slenderness and childish good looks, yet I often heard it mentioned that young Frodo Baggins was once again too ill to come out and play.  
  
He speaks Sindarin well, according to Bilbo, even some Quenya, delighting in the lilting sweetness and strangeness of centuries-old Elvish poetry. And he loves music, as many hobbits do; furthermore, he is posessed of an unusually sweet singing voice - I am not surprised that he listens to my low song, long after his more bucolic companions are sleeping.  
  
Yet he truly looks to young, too delicate for this undertaking - even Peregrin, though in years he is younger than Frodo, seems infinitely stronger and heartier. Frodo displays an unwillingness to eat as the others do, yet beside them he appears not much gaunt, but rather a wisp of evening light, caught momentarily in a translucent skin, gleaming more brightly for its very transience, liquid blue eyes the colour of bright May skies. He seems to flicker, too often - it shames him to accept the help he is constantly in need of, both from me and the other hobbits, willing hands ready to relieve him of the weightier items in his pack, to support him when he stumbles, to nourish him with the finest morsels of our meagre food supplies.  
  
Every stumble, every evening that he seems paler and wearier than before, only highlights my awareness that constant vigilance is needed. There is a low whimper, and instantly I turn to see the ringbearer thrashing weakly, twisting out from the blankets as though he cannot bear their touch, restless. He is murmuring frefully in his sleep, something about Gandalf. I go swiftly to his side - the ivory skin is slightly flushed, blue eyes glazed, unaware of my presence.  
  
He has twisted right away from the blankets onto the ground, and now he is curled uncomfortably on the damp earth and rough grass, beginning to shiver. I kneel at his side, gather him into my arms to lean against my chest, and gently press my hand to the white brow. The heat does not surprise me, and he blinks up into my eyes confusedly.  
  
"St-Strider? I. I don't feel very well."  
  
"I know little one. You have a fever, but I don't believe its anything serious. I think you'll feel better if we put you back to bed."  
  
His lower lip quivers, the blue eyes hazy with fever, and now, it seems, tears also. His voice trembles,  
  
"No. No, Strider please. It's uncomfortable. I c-can't sleep here."  
  
Even when he was a child he had never seemed so vulnerable to me as he does now, tearful and hot, lying against my chest. Now, there is no longer the comforting knowledge that my job is to keep the Shire free from evil intrusion, and that beyond that the halflings may see to themselves. Before, always, someone else cared for these, more personal needs - for Frodo, there has always been someone: Bilbo; a Brandybuck aunt, according to what I have heard I have heard about Frodo's chilhood illnesses; years ago, Drogo and Primula themselves to comfort and nurse him. Even now, if I were to wake Samwise, the care would be taken from me bodily by that conscientious servant.  
  
But somehow I am responsible now. He trusts me - although sometimes I think it would be more reassuring to my sense of danger if Frodo were more suspicious - and I am his main protector.  
  
So I carry him, ever so gently, to my own bedroll, propped against the rock, and settle him on my lap, a little quiet bundle, nestling close to me, almost as though I were his father. It is unsettling - maintaining a dignified sense of distance would make this journey far easier, at least for me. There is little that I may do for him tonight: he does not seem gravely ill, a slight fever, perhaps the sniffly beginnings of a cold. I hold a flask to Frodo's lips and he sips a little cold water obediently; then lays his head against my chest and murmurs,  
  
"Please sing Strider."  
  
"Ssshhh, Frodo. Try to go to sleep." I smile wryly. In truth, I never would have expected this to be among the duties of a wild Ranger. But I sing to him low and smooth until his breathing evens out, so that I think he is asleep. I tuck the blankets more securely around us, and tentatively stroke his hair, enjoying the rare contact: mine is a lonely life. In the morning, I will examine him more carefully, assess what I must do to ensure that he recovers. Soon, I think, we may be caught up in a great tide of meaning and significance, even this tiny creature who sleeps tonight in my arms. But for the moment, there is plenty of time to sing, to stroke his hair, attempting to soothe a moment of discomfort. To soothe. 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: To Soothe  
Author: Helena Larkin  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Frodo has a cold. Set in the Midgewater marshes.  
Story Notes: No sex, slash, profanity, graphic medical detail, or violence. Contains   
hurt/comfort, including cuddling!  
Disclaimer: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the   
property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights   
by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to   
claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way.  
  
A/N: I would like to thank all the lovely people who reviewed Chapter One – I greatly   
appreciate your kindness, as your positive feedback gave me the confidence to post   
this second chapter!   
  
  
To Soothe – Chapter 2  
  
A dank mist has risen during the night, wrapping the marshes close and cold. I awaken some   
time before the hobbits even stir – they are all finding this journey hard, unused to such long   
hours of hard walking, lacking even a hot meal and comfortable bed at the end of each   
exhausting day. Often, by evening, Pippin, the youngest, and Frodo, the most delicate, seem   
worn out almost beyond their endurance. Several times I have seen Frodo close to tears, as   
Sam tries to persuade him to eat – the rough food is clearly not what he is accustomed to, and   
I have seen the faithful Samwise trying to secrete special morsels wherever possible – much   
to the outrage of young Peregrin.  
  
Frodo is curled sleepily against my chest, one little hand fiddling with the my shirt collar. He   
still looks flushed, but when I touch his forehead he is only slightly warm. I hope he will be   
well enough to travel today. I hear Sam murmuring something about 'taters' and a few   
moments later he is sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He sees Frodo in my arms and hurries over,   
grimacing at the scummy water and the unpleasant yellow-grey mist that swirls around him.   
He squats next to me, and says in a low, anxious voice,  
"Is he alright Mr. Strider? You should have called me, if he took sick during the night. I'm   
used to carin' for him you see, since Mr. Bilbo left."  
"I know, Sam. Yet I did not wish to waken you for a small ailment. He was unwell with a   
slight fever, but this morning he feels more normal." Sam gently slips his hand inside Frodo's   
white shirt, peering at him worriedly.  
"Well, he don't seem right to me sir, beggin' your pardon, still a bit hot, and he seems   
sniffly."  
"Perhaps you could make some tea for him? Something sweet that he'll be able to swallow   
easily."  
  
Sam stirs the remains of last night's small campfire until they glow dark red through the mist,   
and a few minutes later he returns to my side with a steaming cup.  
"It's chamomile, sir, he likes that; with a bit of honey stirred in." It is, indeed, wonderfully   
fragrant, the mere scent enough to transport me to a safe, warm hearthside, far from these dim   
marshes. It is golden and smells of fresh summer and bright honey, sweet and fresh from the   
hive. I whisper in Frodo's tiny, delicately pointed ear,  
"Wake up, Little One… wake up Frodo." He stirs in my arms and I feel again a strong instinct   
to cherish and protect, realising anew how small he is. His arms tighten around my neck for a   
moment, and then he is awake, gazing out me sleepily. He does not speak, but, infinitely   
weary, lays his head down once again upon my chest.  
  
I take the cup from Sam and test it with my little finger. It is warm, but not too hot, and I   
place it to Frodo's lips, tilting it slowly to encourage him to sip.  
"It's just some tea, Little One," I murmur coaxingly, "chamomile – Sam made it for you."  
"S-Sam?"  
"Yes. Take a sip." He relaxes and swallows some of the warm sweet liquid. A few minutes   
later he is asleep again, calm and stiil in my lap.  
  
Some time later, when we have all breakfasted on the meagre remains of the previous   
evening's meal, the other hobbits gather around us. They are packed and ready to leave, so I   
lift Frodo in my arms, laying his head on my shoulder, cradling him to my side as I would a   
human child.  
"Today, Bill must take my pack. I dare not lose time, but I think Frodo is not strong enough to   
walk. I will carry him." And once more we begin to walk, carefully in the close mist, the   
Ringbearer seemingly unconscious even of our presence.  
  
Yet I wonder… sometimes he seems to be deeply asleep, yet at others, troubled by dreams   
and fancies. Fortunately the fever is no worse, although his nose is running so that I must   
often wipe for him in his sleep, on a soft linen handkerchief from Sam's pack. (I do believe   
that less than half of the space in that pack is devoted to Sam's own belongings – he is so   
keen that Frodo should always have such things as handkerchiefs.) I have hopes that within a   
day or two he will be recovered from this cold, so long as he is kept warm and quiet, and   
allowed to sleep. Sometimes he rouses enough to drink a little water or some more of the   
chamomile tea – once he is even persuaded to eat a little soft bread. But for the most part he   
sleeps. I think that he knows I carry him, however. For once – only once, in truth, but it was   
enough to assuage some of my fears for his health – the other hobbits having fallen behind   
slightly in the mist, he awoke and, looking up at me lucidly, whispered,  
"Strider… thank you – for taking care of me," and then, blinking, "you are… very kind." A   
moment later, falling back to sleep.  
  
Finis.  
  
Reviews encouraged. Thanks for reading! 


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